


Part of the Night

by Tyranno



Category: Forever (TV), Lucifer (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, bonding over immortality, period-typical homophobia (briefly mentioned), tea and buttered bread
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: “So which is it?” Lucifer said, “Is it just that you don’t show your age, somehow, and youcandie? Did a deal with, ah, someone else? Or are youactuallyimmortal?”“I’m immortal,” Henry Morgan said, “But I can die.”“How interesting you are,” Lucifer said, and if Henry didn’t know better, he would suspect his smile was genuine.





	Part of the Night

Henry broke the surface, a thin sheet of ice cracking around him.

An evil kind of cold was crushing his limbs. Ice stretched around him in every direction, thin floating sheets—far to thin to climb onto, but solid enough to cut his limbs as he struggled. The night was so dark he could hardly see his hands, pearly white in the gloom. He smashed ice as he half-struggled half-swam towards the darker part of the sky. He could only see the shore as a black silhouette against the dark blue.

He had already drowned in the river earlier that evening and he wasn’t planning on repeating the experience. His white linen shirt was slimy and stuck to his arms in clumps, dragging him down. He felt slow and clumsy, the cold slowing his thoughts.

Finally, after what felt like an age, he found a wooden peer. He didn’t have the strength to pull himself up, so clutched the wood, propelling himself towards the shore. He was so cold he couldn’t think. Flailing for solid land, his hands found hard rocks, and he wriggled inelegantly upwards.

Like a beached whale, Henry collapsed on the cold stone.

Every part of him was numb. He was shivering—a good sign—but his legs felt like they were cast in stone. He couldn’t go on, even if he wanted to.

Despair clawed at his cold heart. He had a dreadful vision—he swam to the shore before dying of cold and being returned to the depths, over and over, every night until summer came. He closed his mouth very tightly to hold in a whimper of fear.

“Well, well. Didn’t think I’d see anyone out this late.”

Henry managed to lift his head, vision blurry. The voice was a rolling drawl, with an English accent. All he could see was a swinging oil lantern, the star of a flame like a needle in his eye. The shadowy figure who held it swam before his eyes.

The shadowy figure knelt beside him, and Henry cringed away from the lantern’s vicious light.

“It’s a little cold for a swim,” The shadowy figure asked, “Don’t you think?”

“Nhh,” Henry tried, his jaw stiff with cold. He was shivering so much it felt like he was going to collapse.

The shadowy figure lifted the lantern, shining directly onto Henry’s face. He tilted his head, suddenly curious. Henry felt like some kind of animal in a trap.

“Wait,” The figure said, “Wait, wait, wait…”

Henry regained enough energy to snatch the lantern. “Get that out of my face,” He gasped.

“Oh, sorry,” The figure said in a light tone which suggested he wasn’t really sorry at all, but he set the lantern beside him anyway.

Blinking the light from his eyes, Henry eased himself to a sitting position. His whole body was battered and bruised, his skin a shocking, corpse-white. His hands shook violently.

Unfortunately, now that the lantern was out of his eyes, he could see the mysterious figure. It was a finely groomed, pale English gentleman, with a closely cut stubble and a thick head of black hair. In the dark, Henry couldn’t see him well, but he knew the man had a pair of red-mahogany eyes. Because it was all—uncomfortably familiar.

“I know you,” The man said, who had apparently realised the same time as Henry, “You’re Harry—No, Henry, Henry—what was it? I can never remember last names.”

“Nn—No,” Henry managed to slur out, “Mm—Br- Brian.”

“Brian?” The man tilted his head, “Henry Brian? No, that wasn’t it, it was something M. I remember because my last name’s an ‘M’ too. Or, well, as much as I can _have_ a last name.”

A wave of tiredness threatened to knock Henry over. He clutched the rocks with shaking hands. Of course the one person who could recognise him would just happened upon him when his brain was too muddled to come up with an excuse.

“Morris, was it?” The man asked.

It felt like he was going to be talked to death. He felt like he was going to hurl, but his stomach clutched on nothing. He always woke up with an empty stomach.

“But here’s the interesting thing,” The man said, something sharp entering his expression, “ _You can’t be here._ I met Henry Morgan eighty years ago, and you’re not that old.”

Henry pressed his icy fingers to his face. His body was starting to shut down. Perhaps succumbing to the cold wouldn’t be an awful way to go out. It would certainly save him from his drawn-out tribunal.

“Oh, excuse me,” The man said, straightening up, “You look awfully cold. Let’s continue this inside.”

 

*

 

When Henry came back to his senses, he was out of his wet clothes and dressed in some kind of fresh-smelling night gown, tucked into an expensive bed next to a roaring fire. It was incredibly cosy. Henry began to rethink those irritated thoughts he had had towards the other man at the peer.

The man’s lodging were pleasantly warm, the bed very soft and the fire crackled very warmly. Despite the potentially very dire consequences of someone finding out his immortality, it was a struggle for Henry to keep his eyes open.

The stranger reappeared carrying a tray crowded with a teapot, cups, and an assortment of foods. Henry smelled chamomile and melted butter.

“Now,” The stranger set the tray down on a small table in front of the fire, “You’re Henry Morgan, right?”

Henry sat up. He debated with himself for a long moment—he knew the very real possibility of being captured and experimented on for his gifts, but if the man truly did know him, then he must be immortal, too. Henry recognised him from almost a century ago, and yet the man didn’t have a single wrinkle.

“And, by the way,” the stranger continued, picking up the pot to pour the tea, “I’ll know if you lie.”

“I think… you were friends with someone I treated,” Henry rubbed his eyes tiredly, “You’re Lucien Samael, right?”

“Lucien!” This seemed to amuse the stranger greatly, “Lucien, really? I guess I did go in for code-names back then. It’s a little embarrassing to think about. I just tell everyone my real name these days, it’s more honest, you know?”

Henry blinked blearily at him, “What’s your real name then?”

“Lucifer,” The man breathed, conspiratorially.

Henry felt cold slice through him, “The Lucifer? Satan?”

“The very same,” Lucifer said.

Henry closed his eyes, tightly. He swallowed thickly.

“I must say, you’re very quick to believe me,” Lucifer said, “I think this is the first time in millennia a human’s just taken me at my word.”

Henry rubbed his face, “It would be just my luck. To have to confess to the devil.”

Lucifer watched him, something catlike in his dark eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he wanted to smirk, “So it’s true, then? You’re the doctor I met eighty years ago? Henry Morgan?”

“Yes,” Henry said, because he can’t say anything else.

“You’re looking great for, what, a hundred-and-ten?” Lucifer said, “You’re really quite a handsome fellow. Don’t look a day over ninety-nine.”

“Very funny,” Henry said, and at that moment his body felt very heavy and crooked, as if the weight of all those ill-begotten years were descending on him at once.

Lucifer passed him a cup of tea and a few slices of buttered bread, which he accepted gratefully. The devil watched him as he ate.

“Do you eat?” Henry asked. All this felt very surreal. A part of him had expected the devil to smite him the moment he had admitted to his unnaturalness—but, he supposed, it wasn’t Lucifer that did the smiting.

“Sometimes,” Lucifer said, “I can’t starve, however. At least I don’t think I can.”

Henry ate in silence for a long while. The tea was quite delicious, a far more expensive brand than he ever bought for himself. He wondered absently about his own lodgings a few dozen miles away. He supposed the skinny rivers which snaked through the farmlands didn’t count as large enough for him to be reborn in them.

“So which is it?” Lucifer said, “Is it just that you don’t show your age, somehow, and you can die? Did a deal with, ah, someone else? Or are you actually immortal?”

“I’m immortal,” Henry said, “But I can die.”

“How interesting you are,” Lucifer said, and if Henry didn’t know better, he would suspect his smile was genuine.

A strange feeling began to creep up on him. It was a tugging, in the depths of his heart. He wanted to tell everything, a pressure at the back of his throat. He drunk his tea quietly.

“Whenever I die, I reappear in the nearest body of water,” Henry said, “I don’t know why or how.”

“You aren’t judged?” Lucifer asked.

“No,” Henry said.

“How did you die first?”

“I instigated a mutiny on a slave ship,” Henry said, “I wanted to ease their suffering, release the slaves. I don’t know if it succeeded—the captain shot me.”

Lucifer tilted his head, “It sounds like you’d be sent to heaven.”

Henry felt a twinge of something. The pressure was back, the urge to tell the devil everything, but this time he pushed it down, focussing on his food.

“You don’t think you should be in heaven?” Lucifer asked, his intense gaze back on Henry, “Why?”

Henry frowned into his chamomile tea, “I think heaven forgot me for a reason.”

Lucifer’s hot gaze continued to burrow into him. It was like being in the sights of a loaded crossbow.

Henry closed his eyes tightly. Well, what did it matter? No doubt, the devil knew anyway. He sighed, eyes flickering open, “I’m… unnatural.”

“Unnatural?” Lucifer echoed, “More-so than just immortality?”

“In the criminal way,” Henry said, shame clawing at him, “The _crimes against nature_ , way.”

“Is that… a metaphor?” Lucifer frowned, confused.

Henry gritted his teeth, “I’m—I’m… I-I have lain with men as well as women.”

Lucifer considered him, eyes wide.

Henry’s stomach churned with shame and fear. He chewed his food hard, avoiding the gaze of the devil.

Lucifer shifted forwards, moving cautiously as if Henry was some flighty animal. It struck the old doctor as faintly ridiculous. The devil laid a warm hand over his, squeezing his cold fingers, tenderly.

“I don’t know how much this is going to mean, coming from me,” Lucifer murmured, “But it’s not unnatural. It’s not a sin.”

Henry stared down at him. The devil was the prince of lies. Master of deception, of temptation, of cruel forgiveness. But Henry stared into the man’s gentle, sad face and couldn’t help but believe him. He had too look away, the intensity of the look almost too much to bear.

“Thank you,” Henry said, hoarsely.

Lucifer kept holding his hand, arranging himself to perch on the edge of his chair. He was dressed in neat black slacks, no tie or shoes, and a pressed white dress shirt that was half-undone, in a calculatedly debauched fashion.

“How old are you?” Lucifer asked, his voice back to full dandy drawl, “Chronologically speaking, of course.”

“I was born 1779,” Henry said, “I suppose that makes me… Well, around a hundred and fifty.”

Lucifer beamed at him, “I must admit, it’s nice to meet someone a little more long-lived. Humans have such short memories…”

“Short lives, too,” Henry said, unable to keep the sadness from his voice, “Everyone I know— _knew_ , has passed.”

“Don’t be so gloomy,” Lucifer squeezed his hand, “You have me.”

Henry felt like laughing. He raised an eyebrow instead, “Well, that’s something.”

Lucifer smiled back.

“Tell me about yourself,” Henry said.

“You know about me,” Lucifer replied, languidly.

“I’ve been to catholic school,” Henry said, “and I’ve read the Bible, I suppose. But I don’t want to rely on second-hand accounts.”

“Well...” Lucifer considered him for a long moment. The fire crackled and hissed, muffled by the grate. “You know about the fall, and the aftermarth. The fire and the fury, and all the devils in hell. I’m on earth now.”

“Evidentially,” Henry said.

“I like being around humans,” Lucifer said, “I don’t know why. I can’t stay long—only a few weeks—before someone down there notices I’m gone. Well, they know anyway, but if I’m careful they won’t let my dad know.”

“No doubt he knows anyway,” Henry said, “isn’t that kind of the point? Omnipresent, and all.”

“Well, I suppose,” Lucifer cocked his head, “But if I’m careful he can pretend he doesn’t.”

“Did you meet Jesus?” Henry asked.

“Kind of a funny question,” Lucifer said, “Tempted him in the desert, didn’t I? Nice lad, by the way.”

“I remember now,” Henry said, eyes half-lidded, “I used to recite it. _Man shall not live on bread alone_.”

“Yes, I gave you tea to drink along with it,” Lucifer said, stealing buttered bread from his plate.

Henry drank his tea. He felt very relaxed in the devil’s presence. What that said for his psyche, he didn’t want to speculate.

Lucifer shifted closer, and Henry didn’t have the urge to shift away. The devil smelled of scented oils and rose water sprinkled under his jaw. He felt warm.

“You know,” Lucifer said, with a look so intense Henry might think he was counting his pores, “You’re quite handsome and you don’t look half bad for a hundred-and-fifty year old.”

“You made that joke already,” Henry said, voice low and barely audible over the crackling fire.

“Actually,” Lucifer said, “I’m saying it as a pick-up line, this time around.”

Henry regarded him, eyes half-closed.

“Is it working?” Lucifer asked.

In lieu of an answer, Henry reached out a hand and brushed his fingers through the brushed, close-cropped hair at the back of Lucifer’s beck. He drew the devil close, heady with warmth and fatigue. Lucifer watched him intently, eyes darting around Henry’s face.

Henry kissed him.

Stubble scratched Henry’s chin. Lucifer radiated heat, like a warm stove, his skin strangely soft. Henry’s hands skimmed over Lucifer’s body, shoulders to chest, before finding a grip on his chest and pulling him, gently, forward. The devil shifted the heavy covers away and slipped into bed with him.


End file.
